


Do Unto Others

by mudame



Category: Persona 5
Genre: (more of a love "square"), ACTUAL delinquent Akira, Alternate Universe - America, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Catholic School, Coming of Age, Humor, Love Triangles, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Roman Catholicism, Slow Burn, Teen Romance, Unrequited Love, characters will be added as the story goes on, expect most/all of the PTs, makoto and akechi are step-siblings, sorry lmfao
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:35:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27363601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mudame/pseuds/mudame
Summary: [CHAPTER 1 CURRENTLY BEING REWRITTEN LOL] Affronted by the drawl of his life, Goro Akechi has his interest piqued by a peculiar request from an even more peculiar boy. To his surprise, unremarkable delinquent Akira Kurusu asks for his help in catching the attention of the girl he's fallen for, Goro's step-sister, Makoto Nijima.Through tension and melodrama and tear stained self-discovery, two teenagers get to know each other over the course of a year amidst the backdrop of their small town, a stuffy school, and an unbelievable amount of pretense.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Amamiya Ren, Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist, Niijima Makoto/Okumura Haru
Comments: 7
Kudos: 21





	Do Unto Others

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Drug use references, nothing specific or graphic mentioned, but used as a brief one off joke. If you don't think you can read that, skip this story or skip the paragraph that starts: “I think I’m actually an expert on that front.” I didn't think the reference warranted a tag, just wanted to make sure i accounted for that potentially. 
> 
> Also, PLEASE read the notes at the end if you end up reading this entire thing (sorry that its long but it clears up some stuff!). Thank you!

“Goro,” Makoto sighed, “this stopped being cute when you were 10.” 

The old hickory gave under the dull weight of her shifting feet, a low mewl coaxed from under the threshold as she leaned on the doorway. Passive eyes shot a flaccid glare at the tousled mop of brown hair protruding from the regrettably juvenile star speckled comforter. And, as though from one cursory gesture to another, her response was a groan, then––a slight shift in the sheets. Makoto sighed then, again.  


She padded her way across the dim bedroom, severe streaks of sunlight escaped from lazily drawn curtains pelleted warmly against her bare arms and cheeks. She noted how they similarly pierced through the gaps of her, and then onto Goro’s twitching eyelids and furrowed brow. She looked down at his covered figure then, her looming form protecting his sensitive features from the rays which now melted into the back of her cotton blouse. Challenged by the thought of why she puts up with this trial every morning, she turned abruptly on her heel, unceremoniously grasping and ripping open the curtains in a cruel attempt to tempt something more than a groan from the needlessly uncooperative boy. Expertly, she turned again, grasping and pulling the sheets off from atop Goro before he could nab at them with his own hands to pull over his sensitive eyes. Makoto let it slip carelessly from her grip to the ground. Goro, even in his twitchy half-lidded haze, had the mechanized agency to appear all things proper and inoffensive. The result of this fixed disposition was a curt scoff, his eyes opened slowly and awoke his fair face. Makoto wished he had the decency to scream, maybe, at her or perhaps at the wall behind her. 

“Rise and shine, prince charming,” She started, bored. She reached down and pinched down on his nose and relished in the sight of his wrinkling face, “or did I mean sleeping beauty? Well–” she peered down, “–you look kind of ugly, right now.” 

Quick hands made work of her wrist, shoving it and her hand off the now scowling boy’s nose. He breathed in, as harsh as the unironed look on his face would suggest, and sat up primly. Makoto gave him a pointed look, one that was weathered and knew that there was an argument to be expected out of him. He looked contemplative, she thought pensively, before pulling himself up and out of the bed wordlessly. Before passing Makoto, he shoved a cordial hand behind her head, sending the trifling girl headfirst into a deceptively hard mattress. She made sure not to move a muscle, either in an attempt to garner some pity or, more likely, to claw back at her vanishing pride. Goro, obviously (and she knew this without seeing it), spared not a backwards glance before striding placidly along the mewling hickory boards and past the threshold into a bathroom she resented him for having singular access to.  


Still without looking up, she heard the prompt timing of a slammed door, then the muffled running of a sink. She used this solitary moment to raise her face, and then her body, to set herself graciously onto the low bed. Her hand instinctively shot up to rub the back of her hand quietly at her nose, and she smiled secretly at the hot buzzing that collected itself stubbornly to its tip. Her hand lingered there, and she breathed in, before allowing herself to fall back against the mattress–it was still hard, noted by her escaping breath. She figured Goro would be defiantly slow in getting ready, so she made herself comfortable.  


She laid there, indulging in the biting fragrance of what could presumably be the crude essence of hormonal masculinity. Contextually, the blue tip of a Nivea cream bottle that poked out teasingly from under the gap of the bed, she saw this earlier when approaching the boy, should have been disconcerting. It actually was, and so she sat up with unintentional fervor, reaching up to smooth out her hair with an eager intention that made it look as though she was wiping something off herself. She resigned to picking at her cuticles, and after releasing she declared yesterday that the habit should be broken, pulled her hands apart, and she opted to sit on top of them.  


Eventually, the familiar bustle that accompanied Goro realizing how behind schedule they actually were was growing louder and more frantic. Muffled curses and the sound of a dropping hairbrush and then louder curses allowed Makoto to ease, puffing amused air out of her nostrils. It still tingled a little, “Goro, you broke my nose.” She scrunched it up to herself. 

He busted out of the door then, adjusting his tie with one hand. It was a prissy, plain black thing, and it matched the black trousers he was wearing, “What?” 

“My nose,” she scrunched it up to him this time. 

He carded slim fingers through his tastefully disheveled hair, that’s what he would tell you anyways, and smoothed out the area of his shirt right above the breast pocket. He imitated her face, either mockingly or unintentionally, “What about it?” 

“Well, you broke it.” 

“Shut up. Aren’t we late?” He looked a little bit sorry, Makoto thought. Well, that was debatable. He leaned down to grab at his bookbag, beginning towards the door. 

Makoto laughed lightly, allowing herself up. She smoothed the pleats on her skirt, along the horizontal pinstripes. The black of her skirt was less severe than the boy’s trousers, frank in its attempt to make the girl look tender and fair. Goro himself looked like a cherubic little churchboy, all starched and ironed and mild; the fine hair that teased low past his nape was initially cause for concern at the uptight institution they attended, but oh, Goro was a little darling… the nuns and brothers beheld him and his honest eyes with exalted obligation, and when the pale morning sun deflected as if with divine objective from and around the fragile curls framing his slight jaw, it was as though their knees ached to bend, to touch and vernerate the earth that he was born unto. No, Goro couldn’t possibly cut his hair, “We’re about to be. Let’s go,” she strode up and pushed past him, playful, looking up at him through sparse lashes “big bro.” 

Goro choked out a laugh, dismayed, and looked as put off by the statement as Makoto intended, “A bit gauche to start saying things like that, don’t you think? What’s your agenda,” he grinned forcibly through his grimace, “little sis?” 

Makoto made a face, one that pulled down her stern features by an inch, “I was testing something out. I think I have the resolve to let people assume we’re dating for another year…” They were walking now, in tandem through the hallway and down the stairs of their home. Sae, Makoto’s older sister and their shared guardian, left for work hours before Makoto had even stood in the boy’s doorway that morning. Goro sighed, betraying his easy features. 

“I have a reputation to uphold, Makoto. My virtue is insured for more than double the worth of this town, I’m sure. Imagine that–me–a thoroughly debauched, slick lipped angel...you little harlot!” He hissed, raising scandalized fingertips to his lips, as if he was protecting them. His shoulders hardened slightly, “people will think whatever they want. It’s not like they’ll confirm it with us, regardless.” 

Makoto smiled wistfully. She remembered the innocuous hand cream that was surely pushed haphazardly under his bed, “I guess you’re right.” 

They left through the front door of the house, and the curious eyes that shot past the cloudy windows of the schoolbus lapped up the sight of them together. No one really knew they had lived together for the past seven years, and that was because, Goro would say, no one bothered to ask. To a stranger’s eyes, and they all were, the pair was caught halfway through the walk of shame, the angel and his brainy lap dog red handed, entangled in their sensuous rendezvous. Though, people tend to reserve Goro the benefit of the doubt, and Makoto reads as too uptight to fool around with. Parts of the student body confidently concluded they had chastity toe rings, the pair so unsullied and blushing that they couldn’t bear anything that even alluded to carnal desire, even a lack thereof, exhibited bare and publicly on their bodies. Ah, Goro really was an angel… but who was she again? 

They made their way up the narrow, rickety steps of the shabby schoolbus, looking pointedly forward to avoid the lingering eyes of their tactless peers. They sat near the end of the bus as they enjoyed the relative privacy, but not at the tail end, since that would be too on the nose for them. Easing themselves onto the stiff seats, the low rumble of the bus’s engine started up, and they enjoyed a relatively peaceful ride to their school–bus rides tended to be more animated on the way back from school. Everyone relished in a quiet morning, it seemed. Goro let his eyes flutter shut, and Makoto sat cross-legged and upright, allowing her gaze to bore thoughtlessly into the trees they passed, one by one. 

Soon enough, they were delivered onto the school grounds. Overhead, bold, unobtrusive letters spelled out, “St. Angela of Foligno Institute.” It was a school that sought to fruit disciples, but was deceptively proficient in churning out violently irreligious skeptics. It was a stern, ghastly building, that was brutal in its composition. Symmetrical and squared off at the edges, along with its rusty pallor that was a result of the old bricks laid one on top of the other, the building seemed to pierce right through you. Just off to the side was a sizable church, enough for the likes of their student body which was composed of a modest 150 or so students. Goro liked the church, with its ornate frills and protrusions, and sometimes looked upon its stained glass with a curious fixation. He wished he could climb up to the sills, and trace his fingers along the grooved lead that held the shards together. Or perhaps he would climb up to the bell, which chimed three imposing strikes on the hour. He would surely look divine up there, he mused, grinning to himself. 

He and Makoto walked in through the black iron gate which surrounded the school's perimeter, and then into the school itself, which greeted you with equally imposing walnut doors. They shared their first period together, by some supernatural divination, and sought immense refuge in their hour and a half of honors english literature and composition together. Making their way through the dull fluorescently lit hallways, passing sporadic blips of ardent friend groups and occasionally modest couples who would reach secret fingertips and charged downward glances at each other. Making out was for lunch time, of course, and that was delegated to the twisted heaps of shrubbery that grew graciously, those more romantic than Goro would claim intentionally somehow, along the more secluded sectors of the school yard. 

Eventually they were situated right in front of the unassuming classroom, numbers overhead accredited it the numerical distinction of classroom 302. To them, it was english with Kawakami. They made their way into the classroom, taking in the strident jive encompassing the space of the small class. They shuffled off into some far off corner of the room, which is where they usually sat, near a window which overlooked the lush schoolyard, dotted over white and yellow with roses and dandelions. There was no one there, or at least there shouldn’t have been. Goro raised his brow at the two tresses of frizzy hair, quite distinct from each other in color–black and a pale sort of auburn. The dark haired one walked languidly as though he weren’t a minute from being late to class, whereas auburn haired young lady buzzed around him, practically bouncing on her small feet, earnestly attempting to tug and pull at his arm in an attempt to get him moving even an iota faster. She hadn’t made an attempt to just ditch the dead weight, which was admirable in itself, Goro thought. Why were they coming in through the back? 

Well, they had vanished under the awning that covered the back doors of the school, so they’d most definitely come inside. Goro returned his attention to nothing in particular, pulling his gaze towards Makoto’s back. She always sat in front of him. He rested his chin gingerly on his hand, passing the time by fantasizing about the escapades the two near truants got up to. Kawakami got up and began calling roll. 

“Goro Akechi?” 

He raised his hand. They were obviously students, but Goro had an overactive imagination, and decided that in this moment they were gallant thieves looking to steal the headmaster Okumura’s fortune, which for some reason was conveniently all accounted for in cash somewhere amongst the school grounds, in Goro’s fictional world at least. 

She rattled off a few more, “Makoto Nijima?” the hand in front of him raised with a curt, “here.”

Maybe they were forbidden lovers, their two families holding some kind of arbitrary opposed stance on one thing or the other. They couldn’t be seen together at any cost, lest they be pulled so far apart it would be impossible to meet ever again. So they snuck into the school from the back, sharing a covert tryst shrouded by thorny rose bushes, but oh, they paid no mind to the pricks that pushed sharp into their bodies because it was no worthy opponent to the pain that pierced relentlessly into their hearts, which in that moment beated dually as one… 

Eventually, “Sumire Yoshizawa?” Here. She paused, “So Kurusu and Okumura aren’t here?” 

Oh, or maybe they were witness protection agents, who were rushing up to the classroom without a moment to spare. The two were here to whisk away the fair-faced prince (“Me!” Goro thought haughtily) who had no prior inkling regarding his royal lineage, no clue that today would change his life forever. They’d burst in here any moment for him, shouting–

“We’re here!” was the phrase accompanied by the bursting open of a door. Goro felt as though he had been electrocuted, and for a terribly self indulgent moment flashed thoughts of grand foyers and embellished crowns into his spinning head. 

Without sparing the obstruction a second glance, Kawakami acknowledged them duly, “Akira Kurusu and Haru Okumura,” she motioned carelessly across the classroom, “take a seat.” 

Before either could move, the latter started rushing out a mantra of apologies, hanging her head lower than her knees; the darker auburn roots of her air meshed uninterrupted down to the length of her neck, which was flushed a similarly brilliant shade. Gawky fragmented pleas stacked one on top of the other tumbled and spilled out from behind a curtain of curly bright red shame; the girl seemed as if only just finishing the first movement of her redress before there was a purposeful cough, and a large hand patting at her back, a silent absolvement of her misconduct. Her hair flashed up, and when she presented herself painfully upright, it fell heavy in two halves on either side of round cheekbones, sweeping down just above the slope of her jaw, as if to boast her small chin. 

She bowed her head shallow in a silent atonement, finalized unsurprisingly through vocalized atonement, voice wound tight as the knit of her twitching brows, “We truly are sorry, Ms. Kawakami…” before the meek clicking heels of glossy oxfords moved mechanically forward. The only empty desks were situated embarrassingly towards the front, refusing her to walk off some of the tension building high in her narrow shoulders. 

That left the bespectacled boy there, seemingly unremarkable and definitely lanky, who made his way to the desk just next to her soon after. He grinned easily, unabashed and without the frills Goro liked so much. Goro narrowed his eyes, mockingly or unintentionally, before pulling his attention away from the odd pair dismissively. Class was starting soon, and so he set aside his curious fixation on their imaginary lives in exchange for a composition notebook and a yellow Ticonderoga pencil. 

* * *

Goro recalls parts of the third grade (it was two years before he lived with Makoto) and he’s thankful for this. The days of his youth before the age of ten fly away from his grasp in a flurry of ashy scraps, and the basin of his mind stirs together contradicting abstractions of that young boy’s senses and feelings in ways that feel removed from him entirely. The sanative relations he shared with other children his age, waking up in his home, or the silhouette of his mother pieced together in vibrant fragments of color. That is how he remembers seeing her. And so when Goro can extract particular, cemented memories from the piecey shards that poke and prod inside of his mind, he plays them over again and again, and tries to recall, then, why it is he remembers in the first place. 

One such question evoked from a memory Goro has of learning script in the third grade. His callow hand grew tired of cursive. He remembers the dull, metronomic throb that hit at the outer pad of his palm and thumb, something that was a result of holding his pencil in the obtuse fashion that he did. He thought it to be a nifty quirk of his, and seldom concerned himself with the sporadic bouts of carpal tunnel he dealt with; not that he knew the pain was a result of his unorthodox actions. Goro still doesn’t know that the pain he feels in his hands can be attributed to how high he places his pointer finger on pencils, and so this reflective tangent was his reaction to the building ache creeping up to his fingertips in the present moment, in english class with Kawakami. Goro attributes many of his problems to his hands, the left one in particular for introducing this mystifying hurt, and equally condemns his right for deciding to play along and hurt just the same. Goro attributes hands with intention, and despises the lack of power he has over how his feel. 

When class ends and he can finally forgo his pencil to rub rough circles into the middle of his palm with his thumb, Goro sits patiently and waits for Makoto to finish putting her things away. They part ways here, though it’s mostly out of habit, and perhaps a bit self-preservation, that they linger around each other until they are forced to different ends of their school. Goro sweeps a cursory gaze across the emptying classroom, noting with muted surprise that both parties of the late twosome, Akira Kurusu and Haru Okumura, were looking right at him. People looked at him often, and looked away, and then looked once more. Akechi Goro had a foreign quality to him, something people thought they saw the first time they looked at his face, and something that was never there when they turned to steal a second glance. He took each step on his toes, so that when he walked it looked as though he was floating off the ground, making it so he always looked off to somewhere more important than whatever you had to say to him; no one stopped Goro when he was walking. That is to say, it didn’t shock him when people looked in his direction, and only looked. But Goro felt an invisible connection to them, tethered off in the part of his brain that held the alternate universes he manufactured for the two. He decided then that he should smile.  


The pair look at him, the girl turns to Akira, then back to Goro, smiling with her small, pearly teeth, and eyes that look as though they were pulling up the corners of her lips with invisible strings. She waved cautiously, with a hand that looked as though it should have been attached to the porcelain tchotchke girls that were lined up in their curio, a collection inherited from Makoto’s late father. The boy, Akira, didn’t react so much apart from a nervy little grin that was pointed downwards, towards the bashful schoolgirl, so that he wasn’t looking at Goro at all. It wasn’t until there was a jab at her shoulder that the girl’s smile fell, before she turned to kick a practiced leg at the offender's shin. He doubled over, and hobbled meekly behind Haru as she huffed her way out of the classroom. Halfway through the door, she turned her head hastily as if she’d forgotten something, caught Goro’s gaze in her own and smiled again, slight and private. She turned back, and the pair was gone. 

“Weird guy, huh?” Makoto said to no one. 

“What?” Then, to himself, guy?

“He kept looking at me,” as she stuffed the last book in her school bag. 

The next two periods passed as slowly as Goro expected. Theirs was a lethargic town, situated stubbornly between congested woods and mountains. It wasn’t surprising to say that the most interesting thing to happen today was the spectacle of Akira and Haru, arriving late with their pomp and circumstance, which might paint a clearer picture as to what kinds of fun there is to be had in their town. It was lunch time now, and so Goro met Makoto on the way down to the courtyard. This is something Goro considered to be another of the town’s sources of fun, that is, eating ham sandwiches with Makoto under a shady tree.  
The courtyard was a compact area, surrounded then by a large green yard dotted with auspicious bushes and oak trees. He associated it with distant laughs and playful yelling, and when he unfocused his ears, its distinct hum of constant chatter made for pleasant white noise. When he made out two familiar faces, and the reader can do the math as to who they might be, he decided it was his turn to indulge and stare. It made for quite the handsome sight. Akira’s head was thrown back magnificently in a burst of unabashed laughter. Just adjacent to him was Haru, sitting crossed legged with her hand daintily covering her mouth, crinkled eyes and bouncing shoulders hinting at the ghost of a laugh on her lips. A roughly faux effeminate sigh escaped Goro. 

“Makoto we aren’t any fun, huh?” He curled a lock of hair mindlessly with an idle finger. 

“Speak for yourself,” She scoffed, pointing an accusatory glare at Goro, “you don’t know what I get up to.”

“I think I’m actually an expert on that front.” Small, sharp teeth pulled up into a leery grin. Then, his exclusive sort of contrived, wide-eyed woe, “Unless...Oh–God–” he flitted his eyes around to ensure their privacy, before a fretful whisper and a protective hand clasped around Makoto’s arm, “is it drugs? Oh, Makoto, we’ll escape this hick town, I promise! I didn’t notice any track marks…” 

Goro was about a quarter the way of turning Makoto’s arm over before it was pulled hastily out of his grasp, “You really have an overactive imagination, don’t you? Well, at least one of us is having fun…” 

Goro poked the tip of his tongue out at her, and proceeded to lean his head against her shoulder. His eyes shut on their own. Breathing in, he could make out biting notes of menthol cushioned against a subtler baby powder aroma. He smiled. 

“My little sis smells suspiciously of an old hag…” He yawned, “Ah, that’s it, your shoulder smells like a motel pillow… how exciting, it’s like I'm there. A bumpkin like myself–” 

“Your pillows smell like hand cream and libidinous veniality,” Makoto chewed on her food, all front teeth, “You’re nothing but a fallen angel. Eat your sandwich.” 

“Christ–shut up…” Goro peeled off her then, examining the sandwich between his hands as though it was telling him something, “I’m a growing boy, after all,” an over exaggerated bite into bread and ham underscored this point. 

“Huh, I pegged you for more of a shower!” 

Interjected a voice that was not Makoto’s. Goro’s breath caught halfway into the sandwich in his mouth, his eyes scanning forcibly through slack jawed dread. The first thing he noticed was a mousey silhouette towering overhead him, all loose ends and curly hair. Goro thought, now, that he was tired of looking at these people. Just next to Akira was Haru, and he had expected as much. Makoto sat up a bit straighter, her gaze more acute as she appraised the shuffling pair. Though, it was just Haru shuffling, up-right in her characteristically contrite demure. Akira and his unsavory mouth slouched easily, and when Goro craned his neck upwards, he could see the boy’s thick frames slipping down the arch of his nose because of how he was looking down at him. The sight offended him. 

When Goro had finally swallowed down the lodge of ham and bread caught halfway between his mouth and throat, he spoke up with a carefully modest intention, “I’m sorry…” his docile, exercised gaze considered the both of them, “Do you have business with me?” 

Akira and Haru looked at each other. The girl opened her mouth, then closed it, furrowed her brow in the sorry way she did, and opened it again, “Yes, well...we do have business. With the both of you.” She directed an acknowledging smile to Makoto, who assessed her with an apprehensive intrigue. 

“Uhuh…” started Akira this time, eyes trained stubbornly on Makoto, “and your business–” he places a hand gently on the small of Haru’s back, pushing her forwards towards the stern girl in what Goro could only observe as brash and unnecessary, “–is with her. You’re with me, pretty boy.” 

Goro could feel the veneer of his sheepish smile chip with every second he could see the self-satisfied leer on the other boys unremarkable face, and so he spoke with a cadence faster than usual, so as to get kind words out before honest ones could seep through the cracks, “Ha ha, I wouldn’t call myself particularly pretty,” he lied, “But, I appreciate the sentiment…” Goro trailed off and looked up at him with false expectancy, deciding to tilt his head naively in the way those older than him liked. He figured Akira couldn’t be older than him by any significant margin, but their respective positions demanded that Goro cater to the human sensibility which enjoyed casting its eyes down at a dim-witted face. 

“Akira,” supplied the grinning boy, not at all put off by Goro’s thinly veiled attempt to deflate his ego. That, or he was so thoroughly charmed by Goro’s boyish sensibilities that he hadn’t taken Goro’s words as any sort of sleight against him and his inconsiderable presence. But Akira’s eyes held something demanding in them, a taunt that was wrapped in some dark grey obscurity, and Goro knew then that he didn’t like being looked at by him at all. 

“Akira,” he repeated considerately, letting the word sound out in three thoughtful syllables against his upturned lips. He eased himself up, bowing his head down as if to carefully examine the creases he was smoothing out of his trousers, before looking up at the boy with polite expectancy, “I’m assuming we’re excusing ourselves from the ladies?” 

“Aren’t you perceptive. That’s right,” he hooked a casual arm around Goro’s shoulders, this was likely because he knew the boy wouldn’t protest, and motioned him so that they were both starting off in a direction opposite from where the two girls remained. He cast a casual backwards glance at them, in no rush to take in Makoto’s vaguely astonished expression as she looked plainly at the arm around Goro’s stiffening shoulders, “me and Akechi are off to powder our noses.” 

With that they were off in a direction that Goro assumed was leading to the restrooms, as per Akira’s cheeky declaration. It was mostly Akira leading him, the arm over his shoulder feeling more like a short leash, and Goro had to bite his tongue in some sort of reprimand before easing out, “I’m surprised you know who I am, Akira.” Something Goro was deliberate in was the use of other people’s names. It was an intimate weapon of his. Through his lashes; leaning, provoking–it was someone’s name that came wrapped in his covert, silver vocalizations that made it seem he was looking directly at you, not through or around or in spite of. 

“Is that supposed to be a joke? We’ve been classmates for, what...four years?” He shook Goro lightly, playfully, “You’re particularly notable, actually. Guess I can’t blame you for not knowing who I am, though…” He didn’t look the least bit hurt as his tone let on.

So he did notice, Goro thought indifferently, peering duly at the boy’s easy smile in spite of his contrived offense, “Ah, I’m sorry. It’s nothing against you, I’m often told I have my head up in the clouds. So I can’t say I’m very observant…” 

“As far as I can tell, you’re a pretty careful guy, Akechi.” 

The pleasantries, if you could call that trifling tête-à-tête pleasant, came to end, and soon it was just Akira leading Goro by the collar to the boy’s restroom. It was an entirely new situation for the boy, who was currently wracking his mind as to what circumstances befitted two teenage boys slinking off in some clandestine affair to the school’s outermost restroom. It was in times like this that Goro wished his younger mind cultivated an entirely different, more malicious persona to revolve his perpetual disposition around, but 17 year old Goro had to deal with the cards he dealt himself. That is to say, grin and bear it behind an easygoing chuckle and curved lips, “So, what business do you have with me in...here?” 

Goro peered around gingerly, casually, he’d hoped. It was a shoddy space, busted light bulbs and cracked tiles and dusty floors. Though, Goro was uptight. Akira made himself comfortable against the chipped porcelain of the sink behind him, crossing his arms low and loose. He peered around just as Goro had, then quietly, “Well, we’re alone.” 

“Business…” back to the present, Akira’s apparent thoughtfulness was punctuated by an exaggerated rubbing at his chin, “business… I’d say it’s more of a proposition.” 

Goro didn’t know how to settle himself. He opted to stand, just in front of the boy, “A proposition?” Goro also crossed his arms, “Enlighten me, then.” 

Akira gawked then, almost pleased. He averted his already averted eyes, ran a hand through his impossible hair, and Goro could see then a tracing of gunmetal hoops and studs along the pale cartilage of the boy's ear, “You got all serious, huh...you’re scared I’m gonna eat you?” The crack of his smile was sharp. Goro felt his eyes narrow. 

“Forgive me for being a bit apprehensive about this,” Goro motions around their surroundings, bent on maintaining a semblance of his distinctively regal composure, “You, a stranger, dragging me off like you did with no explanation. All the while you strut around looking like some kind of...delinquent. Of course I’m on edge.” 

Again in it’s magnificent burst, Akira throws his head back and laughs. At Goro. The ends of his hair brush and flatten against the split tiles of the wall, and his crossed arms loosen more, covering his stomach as if he were protecting it. He sighs, satisfied, after his fit subsides and straightens out a bit, his posture high and keen and piercing. He was downright delighted, “Oh, Akechi, you’re a comedian,” he leaned forward, bracing his hands behind him on the edge of the sink, “Ok. Ok, this bad boy will tell you what he wants. And I promise, it’s not extortion or arson or whatever kind of petty criminal antics you had me pegged partial to.” 

Goro heats up at that accusation, but holds himself straighter, training his eyes stubbornly to an infuriating grin, “Well?” 

“It’s two things,” and he lifts up two fingers, as if Goro is some kind of idiot, “And maybe even one, depending on how you answer this. First: what’s your relationship with Makoto?” 

Goro frowned, “My relationship with her?” It was something he was never asked, and therefore never answered. There was nothing to hide, though, and he knew this. Though, there was a part of him that was anxious to reveal this part of himself, and of Makoto, by extension. It felt like a secret that should be kept, and who was Akira to be the first person he divulges his life story onto, “We’re close friends.” 

Akira eased up, grin upturning, “Close friends? Well, that makes sense to me. You’re not dating, yeah? You don’t have to be shy, everything you say here is–” he makes a zipping motion with his lips, and throws away some fictitious key.

“No,” Goro sighs. He isn’t versed in dealing with people this upfront about these things, “No, we’re not dating. I’d give anything to get that absurd idea out of people’s heads.” 

“If that’s the case, I think the second part of my propositions...prelude,” He smiles, nearly sinister, “will please you.” 

Goro just looked at him, crossed his arms again. He was waiting, and Akira let out a dreamy, almost forlorn, sigh, “Honestly, Akechi, I’m in love,” and all pretence melted away from his vexing features. His gaze fluttered down, and Goro could see his tightened grip on the sink’s edge. His knuckles were white. 

“Excuse me?” 

Akira rolled up his head, his eyes still trained wherever on the floor, he was tapping on the sink with his index finger, “It’s been a very… one sided captivation. Well, that’s what I like to think is so captivating in the first place. People have very,” he lolled his head to his shoulder, “involved ideas. About who I am. Apprehension, fear, disdain. They don’t hide anything. To look into someone’s eyes and see nothing. To have those clear, impartial eyes look at me. I fell in love with her. With Makoto.” 

It was a stunning revelation, and yet the ethos behind it was almost entirely expected. Makoto, all things trifling and uppity and in spite of this, infuriatingly austere. It didn’t surprise Goro that it was her integrity that was attractive, especially to some black sheep layabout who had no choice but to romanticise her noncommittal predispositions in a defensive response to his unfortunate circumstances. Goro could figure what Akira wanted out of him. An excuse, an advisor. He was the obvious, straightforward avenue to Makoto’s attention. The perfect means to Akira’s end. He hated the way Akira looked when he talked about her, like Goro could reach out and poke and mold and shape him. Like he was penetrable. All for some girl he didn’t know at all. Goro regarded him severely, and lied again, “Sorry, but I don’t know what role I play in all this.”

“Ah, yeah. Here’s my proposition then. You,” he prodded his boot at Goro’s shin, “help me. Get with her, I mean.” 

Goro jutted back, and smiled his own threat, “what do I get out of this? Out of helping you...seduce Makoto?”

“Seduce? Geez, Akechi,” he pulled a sheepish hand up to rub at his neck, craning it so that the dark underside of his sharp chin showed as if to scorn Goro, “You really have me pinned as some kind of deviant. I just want to get closer to her, to have her look at me...neutral as she is.” 

“What you get out of this,” the hand on his neck fell down, into the pocket of his trousers, “foremost, is an escape from the rumors regarding the nature of Makoto’s relationship with you,” then a smart little grin, “After you help me sweep her off her feet, of course.” 

Goro scoffed lightly, and must have looked ready to fling back an equally cute retort. Akira cut him off. 

“And not only that, consider this...something of a shake up,” He was leaning in now, he was looking Goro right in the eyes, “You’re restless, aren’t you, Akechi? I can see it. Right now, you’re excited,” and in Akira’s eyes, for the first time, Goro saw something he couldn’t name at all. 

He continued, “You know, we’d be spending a lot of time together if you decide to help me out. In all honesty, I was hoping after all was said and done,” he smiled–hook, line, and sinker: “we’d come out of this as friends.”

A dare; that was how Akira beheld with his turbulent eyes–a brazen affront to the unmarred Goro Akechi. When Goro truly looked at him, and it was now that he was finally doing this, he felt a foreign hurriedness, a denial of his meticulously designed pretext. Goro looked at him, against the light. It shone severely from the windows overhead him, eclipsing him in a laughably deific form, stark in its variance to the wicked obscurity situated damnably between his taciturn lashes. The shadow of his form cast on Goro encompassed him entirely. Winding curls ended abruptly just above his jaw, the dark cast of which molded something threatening into the contours of his gaunt face. Goro looked at him, this low provocateur, and felt intrigue. A shameful desire born from the challenge of Akira, from the prospect of his promises, spoken and unspoken. Goro was restless, Akira speculated as much, and his new desire was born from his wonder of Akira’s startling competence–how he’d scratched through Goro, and saw him. 

“So what do you say? You’ll help me, won't you,” through his lashes; leaning, provoking–“Goro?”

It wasn’t that Goro took his bait. He knew exactly what Akira wanted out of him. What Goro wanted now was something out of Akira. His hands ached to reach inside and twist and pull and shape and mold. He wanted to take out of Akira what was taken out of him in this moment, amongst the dim tiles of the restroom. He wanted to put a name to what he saw in Akira’s eyes. Goro was excited, and this will be the second time he’s conceded to Akira’s infuriatingly adept understanding of him. What Goro wanted, and this want is amongst the foreign feelings Akira has managed to pry out of him in their short time together, was a little bit of fun. As much as the grinning boy managed to provoke him, the thrilling heat building up in the pit of Goro’s stomach at the idea of someday being able to get under the skin of Akira Kurusu was unbearable. Needless to say, Goro was dreadfully bored. Yes, he needed a shake up. So, his next words were a result of this sentient fatigue and a selfish disregard to the girl whom this was all about. He smiled, and hoped it did to Akira what his smile had done to him. 

“Sure," he smiled, all teeth, "I’ll help you, Kurusu.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Thank you for reading, if you did, it makes me very happy. I remember a long time ago it was a rule of thumb to NOT mention that something you wrote was your first fic or whatever, but i think people these days are a little less..critical! This is the first fan fiction i've ever written, and actually the first thing i've written for pleasure in years. P5R inspired me so much, it's a very important game to me now. I'd appreciate feedback (critical or otherwise) tremendously. I'd like to apologize foremost for how BAD the pacing is in this first chapter. I wanted to get everything out on the table as quick as possible, and i'm also just a little rusty with the whole writing thing. And I wrote it all in a single draft. I think it reads awfully, but maybe thats tunnel vision. No one is looking over these so...I'm gonna definitely have an easier time pacing the later chapters. I thought i'd use this space for some clarifications regarding the story, and if you have any questions lemme know in the comments. 
> 
> This is an American AU. sorry lmfao. I'll ask that you suspend your disbelief just a little bit. I'm not gonna be adding any original characters, and if by some chance there are, they will remain nameless and insignificant. I can't justify having a John Smith (alternatively, a Taro Yamada being added into an American school) alongside people named things like Ryuji Sakamoto or Akira Kurusu..its kind of uncool and breaks immersion. so...please pretend it's just normal. I'm using an American setting because I feel like the American catholic schooling experience (and the american small town experience) is very specific, and that experience is important to the story. Not only that but..it's easier for me to write, since i'm living it lol. this is self indulgent if you hadn't noticed...
> 
> The rating of this story will stay T! I worried about some of the more dubious references and jokes to things like masturbation, etc would be construed as a precursor to something more explicit in the future. That's not the case, I'm a teenager and I just talk with my friends that way. It's also just normal teenage stuff, and that kind of hormonal melodrama is actually important to the course of the story lol. It is coming of age! Btw, Akira, Goro, Makoto, and Haru are all in the same grade. This is just for convenience. 
> 
> I think this is my last point, but I don't actually condone/ship some of the pairings I allude to in this story. The love "square" element of this story is the driving force but...you know where my intentions lay. Also, in regards to characterization, I hope Akira doesn’t come across too OOC. since this is a no powers AU, I wanted him to have some “joker” in him. People often characterize him as charming and awkward and bumbling..which i love! But sometimes i just want Akira to be unapologetically COOL. and so Akira will be COOL in this story. With a bit of his awkward charm. I just want Akechi to get all caught up by some bad boy.. whatevs!
> 
> Oh also makoto nijima is a cop killa. she's a bookish nerd here...and Goro's sis :). As you can see. there is the makoto/haru tag. Honestly...they will not be as developed as the shuake lawl. But they're sweet..i'll try to do them justice!!
> 
> Ok thanks if you read all that. love yaa..also follow me on twitter @shujinke. I want friends who like what I like i.e. persona 5. ty
> 
> last thing, i saw this art: https://twitter.com/kekisu/status/1319835666063261697?s=20 on twitter during my writing process and it reminded me of how I'm characterizing Akira in this. earrings and all! amazing. maybe this was subconsciously why he put his arm around goro in that one scene. Anyways, just wanted to leave that there because I really like this artists stuff and it served as (unconscious?) inspiration for me lol. ok bye byeee


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